Balkan Ghosts

Robert D. Kaplan is the author of some sixteen books on travel and foreign affairs.  He began his career as a free-lance journalist, with a specialty of examining parts of the world that were not well covered in the world's press.  In 1993, he published Balkan Ghosts, discussing his experiences traveling throughout the Balkans in 1990, the most recent of several visits to the area throughout the 1980s.

Kaplan, like Rebecca West over a half century earlier, traveled through untouristed areas of the Balkans, often hitchhiking, often traveling on trains that were impressively primitive for 1990.  He talked to everyone.  He was befriended by knowledgeable people in each country -- rarely those holding office -- who were flattered and delighted that an American journalist was taking time to hear their stories.

He modestly admits that his travel writing is based on earlier models.

[A]t its very best, travel writing should be a technique to explore history, art, and politics in the liveliest fashion possible.  Mary McCarthy's The Stones of Florence and Dame Rebecca West's Black Lamb and Grey Falcon are the best examples of this that I can think of.  I have tried, however clumsily, to aim my star in their direction.

I chose to read Kaplan's book as a follow-up to West's Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, discussed several posts ago.  Unlike West's book, Kaplan's analysis extends beyond Yugoslavia, covering also Romania, Bulgaria, and Greece.  The section dealing with Yugoslavia, however, is one of the two longest sections in the book.  It is broken into four subsections covering Croatia, "Old Serbia" (Kosovo) and Albania, Macedonia, and Belgrade and its surrounding area in Serbia.  He refers liberally to Rebecca West's massive work as he travels throughout Yugoslavia, noting how little had changed in some ways among the common people, despite the years of Tito's Communist government.  Referring to West's book, he notes that "Like the Talmud, one can read the book over and over again for different levels of meaning." 

Perhaps the overall theme of Kaplan's book is that history is never forgotten in the Balkans, and hatreds always remain under the surface, waiting to emerge at inopportune times.  Each of the countries he discusses -- Serbia, Albania, Macedonia, Bulgaria, Greece, and Romania (and, mentioned in passing, beyond the Balkans, Hungary) -- has at one time or another been a much larger entity than it is at present.  The people of each country believe that is their country's destiny to regain its former glory.

Moreover, hovering over each country's local concerns, and drastically affecting their development, have been the imperial ambitions of empires on the peripheries of the Balkans -- Russia, Austria-Hungary, and, especially, Ottoman Turkey.   All of the Balkan nations have been under the thumb of the Ottomans -- an empire that for centuries was devoted to the ultra-conservative goal of keeping life from changing.  Because of the Ottomans, Kaplan points out, most of the Balkans were insulated from the Renaissance and the Enlightenment, movements arising out of the West and leading to their later dynamism.  Only Transylvania, now part of Romania, escaped (surprisingly, for Dracula fans) the deadening hand of Ottoman rule because of its proximity to Hungary; only in Transylvania could Kaplan get decent service in a restaurant. 

Ottoman rule, with all its cruelties and unfairness, humiliated and degraded all the Balkans, but especially the Serbians

They filled their hearts with vengeful sadness and defeat, feelings whose atmospheric effect bore an uncanny resemblance to those that for centuries propelled Iranian Shiites.

After the fall of the Ottoman Empire and then of Communism, those feelings of inferiority, defeat, and hatred have left the Balkan nations only each other to turn upon.

Kaplan was in Romania just after the fall and execution of the Communist dictator Nicolai Ceauşescu, and describes in some detail the fall-out from that violent era. 

He lived in Greece for a number of years during the 1980s, and describes the career of the Greek prime minister (1981-89 and 1993-96)  Andreas Papandreou.  Papandreou is described in Wikipedia as being "frequently regarded as one of the greatest Prime Ministers of the country."  Kaplan would disagree, describing him in terms that seem to foresee a certain politician of out own time:

The fact that close to 40 percent of the electorate still supported Papandreou ... even after Papandreou was indicted for embezzlement and wire-tapping, "shows the Third World-Latin American-style populism of Greek politics.  It is tribal, xenophobic..." [quoting a Greek pollster]

  And for his supporters:  "Their loyalty to him was tribal and not affected by issues."

Americans view Greece as part of the West, as the home of the Athenian Parthenon and a founder of our civilization, Kaplan notes.  That's superficial, he contends.  Greece today is an integral part of the Balkans and shares their discontents.  Greece, like the rest of the Balkans, is still coming to terms with centuries of Ottoman rule.  Greece is not a child of the Enlightenment, or of its own classical history. 

Balkan Ghosts is a perceptive and fascinating study of the Balkans as they existed just thirty years ago.  The war in Bosnia had not yet occurred, nor had the war in Kosovo.  Since these wars, most of the Balkan states have joined the European Union or have applications pending.  I would be interested to read whether Kaplan (still an active author) feels more optimistic about the Balkans' prospects today than he did in 1990.

The book is a shorter and more accessible book, perhaps, than is Black Lamb and Grey Falcon.  Kaplan includes, as did Rebecca West, a considerable discussion of landscapes, art, and architecture, but he focuses much more on current politics, and the historical basis for present conflicts.  Well worth reading.

Those old, isolated, Covid-19 blues

Who's that masked man?

"Say!  Who was that masked man?"
"Why, don't you know?  That was ...[pause] ... the LONE RANGER!"
[In distance]  "Hi-yo Silver!  Away!"
[Fade in William Tell Overture theme]

I gave into fear and trembling last night.  I went on-line and purchased two black masks.

Masks play an interesting role in the legends and iconography of American childhood.  Usually, they symbolize the bad guy, the bank robber, the Beagle Boys.  Especially when the masks are black.  Masks in the Old West tended to be merely large handkerchiefs folded in half, forming a triangle that hid the bad guy's identity.

But sometimes the masked man was a good guy.  For example, The Vigilante was a masked government agent who barreled around on a motorcycle with his young Chinese sidekick.  You folks probably are too young to remember him, but he appeared in comic books and, for me, more notably, in movie serials showing at your neighborhood theater.  Another guy, maybe good, was Dumas's Man in the Iron Mask.  And, most sublimely of all, from those thrilling days of yesteryear, the Lone Ranger.

There was also the Masque of the Red Death, but let's not go there.

My mind wanders.  But yes, I sent out for a mask.  For two.  Black masks that will cover my nose and mouth, making me look evil or a hero, depending on your predisposition.

The reason, of course, is Covid-19.  First they say no, then they say yes, waffling back and forth as to whether it's worthwhile for the average guy to wear a mask.  The masks I'm buying aren't the N45 masks that medical professionals need -- those aren't easily available to the average guy, and it would be virtually unpatriotic to buy them if they were.  These are cloth masks.  The advertisement very carefully pointed out that these were not medical equipment, but suggested that they might offer protection to other people if you yourself were infected. 

Some folks are masking themselves in old t-shirts.  These should be better -- or at least more stylish.

No one seems to know for sure whether such cloth masks protect the wearer himself from other people.  I gather that they do provide significant protection if someone near you coughs or sneezes, but maybe no protection from virus-bearing aerosols that they emit from normal breathing.  I don't plan to wear them walking outside -- I'm pretty careful about keeping my distance from others -- but they may become reassuring if I have to enter a building occupied by a number of other people.  (I've so far avoided this threat, except for an early grocery shopping trip over a month ago, before I discovered the wonders of on-line, pick-up grocery shopping.)

More and more folks are wearing masks everywhere, even riding bikes.  I think they look odd and geeky.  But not as odd and geeky as they did a couple of weeks ago.  You get used to things you never thought you would.  I now feel confident that I could go out in public looking like the Lone Ranger, and no one would bat an eye.

My two new masks are surprisingly expensive.  Or maybe not so surprising, considering demand.  Add shipping costs to allow them to reach my house while they are still needed, and the total expense irritates me.  But a little voice asks me, "How much do you think your funeral would cost?" 

That sort of puts things into perspective.  I shall stride forth bravely masked.

From out of the past come the thundering  hoofbeats of the great horse Silver!  The Masked Blogger strides again!

Emptiness

Pioneer Square has always had its visibly homeless population, but right now, with downtown’s housed residents staying inside and weekday work crowds gone, street sleepers and shelter users are almost alone — besides those who still come downtown to help them.

--Seattle Times

 The Covid-19 epidemic has hollowed out Downtown Seattle.  Or so our newspaper says.  Since the "Stay Home" order in mid-March, I haven't been downtown.  Nor have many people. 

The buses still run, on a reduced schedule, but they are nearly empty.  Ghost buses gliding down empty streets, streets devoid of traffic.  Their destination signs lit up with the words, "Essential Trips Only."  Carrying only the few -- the very few -- passengers who do essential work, and can't work from home.  And, of course, those who watch over the homeless, the new owners of the downtown streets.

It stirs a haunting memory of the 1990 movie Europa, Europa, of the scene where the boy, secretly Jewish, travels by streetcar through the Warsaw Ghetto during the Nazi occupation. The streetcar windows had been painted over, made opaque to save the passengers from the horror of observing the sights of destitution and starvation outside.

And it's not just our downtown that's hollowed out.  My life feels hollowed out as well.

I've been wondering why -- having finished reading my 1,200-page volume by Rebecca West, and having painfully distilled my wildly gyrating reactions to that book down into a few paragraphs for Monday's post -- I now feel so unable to think of any new topic worth discussing. 

The reason, of course, jumps right out at me.  When I'm not reading, I'm confronted by the pandemic.  Nothing else is happening.  I looked at the front page of today's New York Times -- every single story is in some way involved in the medical, social, economic, or political fallout from the effects of the virus.  That was true, in fact, for the entirety of the first fifteen pages, with the exception of a story on page six about a dispute between Iran and Iraq.  The New Yorker's four "editorials" -- under the title "The Talk of the Town" -- all deal with some aspect of the epidemic.  Feature articles included a lengthy biography of Dr. Anthony Fauci, an analysis of the effect of the pandemic on Wall Street, and a "humorous" feature about living through enforced isolation.

It's not that I'm not interested in the pandemic.  I gobble  up every item of news about it.  But the pandemic itself has gobbled up nearly everything else in life. 

The pandemic is all everyone thinks about and reads about.  I have nothing new to say about it.  I can write nothing about it that anyone wants to read.  The subject already has been essentially exhausted, with months to go before it's through with us.  The print media now publish little on any other subject that is capable of either exciting or infuriating me.

I'm tired of writing about long walks through beautiful, virus-fogged streets.  I'm tired of writing about my trials and joys in quests for groceries.  I have no hiking along new trails to describe, no travels in new countries to anticipate or relate.  All my lecture series, all my film series, all my concerts have been canceled: I have nothing to review, no grist for my analytical mill.  We can no longer assemble in movie houses, and I don't subscribe to Netflix.

My mind needs stimulation, desperately.  Instead, I feel as though I were wandering through  the deserted wasteland, the empty streets, of Downtown Seattle itself -- watching the sagebrush blow by..

My only hope is to read, and then to analyze and discuss what I've read.  Read any good books, lately?  I suppose I should peruse the generally useless suggestions that Amazon is so happy to offer me.  Another book review, a review of any book, would be better than another post complaining about the emptiness of life in the Kingdom of Covid-19.

Black Lamb and Grey Falcon

Rebecca West wrote her massive, 1,200-page book Black Lamb and Grey Falcon following her 1937 travels through Yugoslavia.  She comments at one point that her book was so long that no one would ever read it.  She was very wrong, but -- during the four weeks I nibbled away at it -- I sympathized with her concern.

West had visited Yugoslavia briefly the preceding year, and was fascinated by the country and its people.  She returned in 1937 with her husband for a tour of the entire country, visiting historical sites and talking to local people from all social strata.  But the book is so different from the typical travelogue that it is difficult to describe.

First of all, it is indeed a travelogue.  The couple travel by train from Budapest to Zagreb, where she meets three locals, people she had met the year before.  Most important of these was a Serbian poet and government official named Constantine, an erudite and highly eccentric fellow, who accompanies them during most of their tour, at times joined by his ethnically German  wife Gerda, an abrasive woman described as representing every known bad stereotype of German nationality.  They visit, in order, Croatia, Dalmatia, Herzegovina, Bosnia, Serbia, Macedonia, "Old Serbia" (essentially, Kosovo), and Montenegro.

(NOTE:  This post should be read in conjunction with my essay on March 28, based on my reading of the first quarter of the book, and describing their travels in Croatia and Dalmatia.)

Second, West seems to have had an excellent art education, and describes with strong conviction her opinions on the examples of Slavic art and architecture that they see.

Third, West has a strong bias in favor of the Slavic peoples.  While freely discussing weaknesses found in their character, she is attracted by what she sees as their speculative, mystical, and emotional nature.

In the West conversation is regarded as a means of either passing the time agreeably or exchanging useful information; among the Slavs it is thought to be disgraceful, when a number of people are together, that they should not pool their experience and thus travel further towards the redemption of the world.

This nature leads Slavs to seek ultimate meanings in all that happens to them, in contrast to their far more superficial and materialistic tormentors, the Germanic peoples, and specifically the Austrians. She also finds lingering signs of Manicheism in the Slavic people -- an acceptance of realms of good and evil, dark and light, existing side by side on earth -- an attitude that had been stamped out as heretical in Western Christianity.

  She detests the Austrians, and, by extension, the Germans, and the Austrian's former imperial partners, the Hungarians.  She is more or less contemptuous of the Italians, who have harassed the Slavs over the centuries, especially the Slavs in the coastal states of Dalmatia and Montenegro.  She has a different form of contempt, mixed with some admiration, for the Ottoman Turks.  She considers them cruel and bloodthirsty, far more competent in battle than in government.  In fact, she finds the Turks incompetent in governing all non-Turkish territories that they administered.  She admires to some degree, however, their architecture, their love of nature, and their incorporation of natural features and simplicity in their houses and other architecture.

Fourth, she is a feminist, but a feminist somewhat different from those of today.  She believes that men and women have different spheres of activity in life (and different gender-related weaknesses), and that each excels within his or her own sphere.  She believes that one of a woman's natural duties is to help a man be more like a man.  As a corollary, she admires Serbian men for their strength and masculinity, compared with the softer men of Croatia and Slovenia who spent too many years prospering under Austrian rule.

Fifth -- and something that I didn't appreciate until more than half way through the book -- she is a philosopher.  Although a non-practicing Anglican, she is strongly attracted to Eastern Orthodoxy, and especially to the Serbian Orthodox church.  She notes that Catholicism, and most Protestant churches, build churches designed to lead worshipers' thoughts to God through light and openness -- e.g., Gothic architecture.  She is more impressed by the darkness of Orthodox churches, especially in Serbian regions where the churches seem almost underground.  The congregation stands in the dark, while the priests conduct the service at an altar hidden behind a screen, the iconostasis.  At certain points during the service, the door in the screen opens and a priest emerges, giving the congregation a glimpse of the dazzling light and ornamentation hidden behind the screen -- an intimation of the realm of heaven viewed from the darkness of earth.  She finds this approach impressive, one that encourages mysticism. She returns to this point repeatedly.

The congregation had realized what people in the West usually do not know: that the state of mind suitable for conducting the practical affairs of daily life is not suitable for discovering the ultimate meaning of life. They were allowing themselves to become drunken with exaltation in order that they should receive more knowledge than they could learn by reason; and the Church which was dispensing this supernatural knowledge was not falling into the damnable heresy of pretending that this knowledge is final, that all is now known.

West has come to believe that humans have within them both a love of life and a love of death, and part of the challenge facing each of us is to choose "life."  The "grey falcon" of the title refers to a traditional poem based on the disastrous Battle of Kosovo in 1389, by which the Turks finally defeated the Serbs under Prince Lazar, and ruled over them for the next 550 years.  The poem recounts Elijah, in the form of a grey falcon, appearing to Lazar before the battle, offering him the choice between an earthly kingdom and victory in the battle, or a heavenly kingdom but a loss to the Turks.  Lazar chooses the heavenly kingdom, and his soldiers go into battle, fighting valiantly to the death, but knowing in their hearts that they were destined to lose.

West will have nothing to do with Lazar's choice, or with the poem's suggestion that such a choice is ever necessary.

In a lengthy 1941 epilogue, she brings the world up to date from 1937.  Yugoslavia was the only nation to refuse the Nazis' demands, with full knowledge that their country would thereby be devastated.  And it was.  But they made the right choice under their 17-year-old king, West observes, resisting as long as possible -- making the opposite choice from that made by Prince Lazar.

She contrasts Yugoslavia to Britain and France -- up until Churchill unexpectedly became prime minister -- which had been strangely inert while Germany gobbled up the nations of Europe, one by one.  Even when it was obvious that German planes would eventually be attacking England, no one did anything -- no increase in airplane production, no attempt at defense.  (I recall John Kennedy's senior thesis at Harvard, "Why England Slept.")  It was as though, like Prince Lazar, the ruling circles in both England and France had chosen a "heavenly kingdom" rather than fighting -- like "men," she no doubt thought -- in order to save freedom, or to die trying.

Again and again peoples have had the chance to live and show what would happen if human life were irrigated by continual happiness; and they have preferred to blow up the canals and perish of drought. They listen to the evil counsel of the grey falcon. They let their throats be cut as if they were black lambs. The mystery of Kossovo was behind this hill. It is behind all our lives.

These are highlights that I recall.  The book is so long, her travels are recounted in such detail, her thoughts are so wide-ranging, her likes and dislikes are so firmly stated, that I can only give a taste of the reading experience.

Yugoslavia now, of course, is broken up into seven independent countries.  How would West feel about it?  She strongly supported Slav unity.  How would she feel about these new Slav states joining the European Union?  She hated the idea of empires, even her own nation's British empire, because they cobbled together disparate nationalities under one leader, rather than allowing each nationality to rule itself, to live out its own history and destiny.  She was a nationalist and not an internationalist. 

But the EU isn't an empire, and its members retain their individual characteristics -- so far as possible in an age of homogenization that she would have found incredible.  I like to believe that the EU's success to date in maintaining peace within Europe would have persuaded her that a different time in history has accomplished her ultimate hopes and objectives, but in an unforeseen manner.

Do you like history?  Do you like travel?  Do you like to ponder the imperatives of life itself?  I can't recommend this book strongly enough.

The sorcerer has no clothes

"I will be speaking to all 50 governors very shortly and I will then be authorizing each individual governor of each individual state to implement a reopening, and a very powerful reopening plan, of their state at a time and in a manner as most appropriate," Trump said. "The day will be very close," and in some states "maybe even before the date of May 1." He added that "the governors will be very, very respectful of the presidency," but they "are responsible, they have to take charge, they have to do a great job," or he might "close 'em up and start all over again."
--Donald Trump, 15 April 2020

Thus speaks the President of the United States.

After yesterday claiming that, as president, his "authority is total" -- health restrictions would be ended whenever he chose -- and facing an uproar from Democrats, legal scholars, and even members of his own party, he today graciously grants a Royal Patent to the governors to do whatever they like. As long as they are "very, very respectful of the presidency," i.e., Mr. Trump, or he might reassert his royal authority.

He raises his hand, and the tide comes in. He lowers his hand, and the tide rushes out. He stands atop our government granting and withholding permission for the states to act. And yet he has no power, not even the remnants of belief by most citizens that he knows better than the state governors or his own medical advisers --and none of the states most affected by the pandemic to date will pay him heed.

He reminds me of Mickey Mouse on a high rock, directing the water-carrying brooms in the "Sorcerer's Apprentice" segment of Fantasia. Giving orders that the brooms ignore.

Other than bulldozing his way through constitutional law, his major activities during the week, relative to the Covid-19 crisis, have been holding up stimulus checks long enough to permit his name to be printed on each of them, and suspending payments to the World Health Organization because they let the pandemic catch him totally unaware. Despite the statements by innumerable officials, both within and outside the administration, that he had been warned of what was coming as early as January.

When Trump was inaugurated, commentators said the test of his presidency would come when the first major crisis hit the nation. The crisis is here, and he has already failed.

The world watches our nation with dismay.

A strange Easter

Easter surprise while walking
on Capitol Hill

Twenty-twenty.  The year we approached such a short time ago with cautiously hopeful anticipation.  The year that quickly became an annus horribilis, a year that we will tell stories about to future generations. 

And today, Easter.  The Easter when the churches all stood empty.  When in the past two thousand years had that ever happened?

And yet -- life goes on.  Nature is undeterred.  In fact, here in Seattle, Easter 2020 was a beautiful day.  Blue sky, bright sun, flowers blooming in every yard, and the leaves of big deciduous trees just beginning to open.

Because I can't stay locked up in the house all day, even to avoid a cunningly novel virus, I went out for my daily walk.  This is the first weekend that all of Seattle's major parks have been closed; we were bad children last weekend and congregated in the parks -- just as we had been warned against.  So no walking through the Arboretum, which had been getting too crowded for me on weekends in any event -- and, recently, even on weekdays as well.  And no crossing into the University District -- a favorite hike -- because of the perils posed especially on weekends by runners and bikers competing for sidewalk space on both the Montlake and the University bridges.

My options were becoming somewhat limited, but I decided to head for Capitol Hill.  From my house, there is a maze of small, funny streets that wind up onto the Hill, hugging the eastern edge of Interlaken Park.  Having achieved the top, by Stevens School, I headed south on 19th and 18th Avenues, past St. Joseph's Church, until I reached Roy.  I turned right, and headed west to 14th, and then turned right again back to Prospect.  At this point, I was on the southern border of Volunteer Park.  I headed west to Federal Avenue, which runs along the western side of Volunteer Park, and followed it for a  long distance northwards, past Seattle Prep, to the west entrance to Interlaken Park.  I then walked the entire length of that beautiful park back to my house.

In four miles, I thus looped Volunteer Park, without ever actually setting foot in it -- its having been supposedly closed to the public.  Interlaken Park is a forested area that surrounds Interlaken Bouevard.  It is frequented by walkers and bikers; it is not the sort of playground, however, that causes dangerous crowds to congregate, and so it was not closed.

The entire walk was an exhilarating pleasure, even though I've often done it before.  The weather was perfect, the flowers and trees showed their newly awakened splendor, and my fellow walkers were friendly and careful about maintaining distance.  Walking the long winding boulevard through Interlaken Park -- half of which has long been closed to vehicular traffic -- is almost like walking an easy trail through a wilderness forest.  We had just enough of a breeze to provide a constant rustling sound in the trees above us.  And coming down from Capitol Hill, I noticed for the first time that the upper half of Mount Baker's snowy volcanic cone was visible over the buildings of Seattle Prep.  The atmosphere is clearer than usual,  apparently because of the drastic reduction in traffic.

I realized as I walked how lucky I am.  I live in a beautiful portion of a beautiful city.  My house isn't huge, but it has ample space for a single resident, and it has front and back yards that seem to expand the size of the house when weather is good.  I realize that many fellow citizens are trapped in much smaller quarters -- even studio apartments -- and in much less pleasant surroundings.  The New York Times recently carried a photo feature illustrating the problems faced by Queens residents under the stay-at-home rules required by the pandemic.

Yes, I'm lucky.  And after a day like today, I feel less inclined to complain about my travel plans for the year having been wiped out, about my ability to visit relatives being temporarily ended, about my ability to move casually even around my own state being discouraged.  Someday, we will make whatever adjustments to a new reality that are necessary, and life will still be worth living. 

Meanwhile, I'll be patient.  I'll be optimistic. And I'll find worthwhile pleasures wherever they wait to be found.

Happy Easter!

A Small Place in Italy

Who wouldn't love to have a second home in Europe?  Italy, or perhaps France?  Back in 2017, I discussed Peter Mayle's book, A Year in Provence, about his adventures among his French neighbors.  This past week, I read Eric Newby's 1994 memoir, A Small Place in Italy.   

I actually chose Newby's book -- a British paperback edition obtained from a second-hand bookstore through Amazon -- simply because I wanted to read something else by Newby.  In the past, I've discussed his more famous books, The Last Grain Race and A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush, as well as (last month) his collection of essays, A Traveller's Life.

While not the best of Newby's writing, A Small Place in Italy -- as it turned out -- had a special interest for me.  The house he and his wife ended up buying in the mid 1960s (named "I Castagni") was near Sarzana, in the hills about five miles behind Lerici on the Ligurian coast.  Lerici is just five miles south of La Spezia, and La Spezia is the southern entrance to the Cinque Terre.  As some will recall, before the pandemic, I had planned a birthday celebration next month with 30 guests for Levanto, at the north end of the Cinque Terre.  Lerici is also where the English poet Shelley drowned, although that's not relevant to Newby's story.

Reading the book was the next best thing to actually visiting the area, although as the book makes clear, the area changed radically between 1967 and 1991, when the Newbys sold their house and moved away.

Readers of A Traveller's Life will recall that Newby temporarily escaped from a prisoner of war camp in Italy during World War II, and wandered about the Apuan Alps, holing up in a cave during one winter with assistance from local sympathizers.  The nearness to that area -- between Lerici and Parma -- was one factor in his decision to purchase property where he did.  He hoped to -- and did -- look up people who had become good friends and allies during the war.

For those of us who are physically lazy, the book is somewhat exhausting to read.  As with Mayle's story of Provence, and other books by English writers describing life in southern Europe, the Newbys made close friends, friends of peasant stock who were largely friendly, good-humored, and close to the land.  But the book describes in detail -- for me, excessive detail -- the hard physical labor required to restore the house from virtual ruin to an inhabitable residence, and their work harvesting grapes and olives on their own property and, reciprocally, for their neighbors.  All accomplished, year after year, during time he managed to take away from his job in London as the travel editor for a London newspaper.

You may learn more about grapes and olives -- not to mention mushrooms -- than you hoped to know.

As you would guess, from reading Newby's better-known works, he and his ethnically Slovenian but Italian-reared wife Wanda, are a hard working but easy-going couple.  They make friends easily.  Wanda is fluent in Italian, and Eric is close to fluent.  (Although their neighbors generally spoke a local dialect among themselves, which is largely unintelligible to Italian speakers.)  They knew both how to offer hospitality to their neighbors, and how to accept hospitality freely.  They accept without hesitation all the peculiarities they encounter among their peasant neighbors, and are able to relate to them on their own terms.  They came to Italy to learn to be Italian farmers, not to bring the joys of British civilization to the Italians.

A lesson we can all carefully note.

They managed to get along well with everyone, aside from a malicious and unpopular neighbor named Arturo, who tied them up in litigation for years in an attempt to wrest from them an easement over their property.  There's one in every crowd, as they say.

The last three chapters are a heartrending story of the deaths of one friend after another.  Young children became middle-aged adults, with less interest in tending vines or olive trees.  The help their neighbors had so willingly provided with the crops, and the hospitality and huge meals they had provided, became less available.  Even this backwoods, mountainous part of Italy was becoming part of a standardized, modern world.  All of a sudden, television was everywhere.

The words Newby provides describing a town on the Parma side of the mountains -- a town that was grim and somewhat closed in on itself, and full of old people dressed in black, when first visited -- serve as a requiem for the peasant life throughout the Apuan Alps -- and all of rural Europe, perhaps.

The year before we left I Castagni, Sassalbo had changed not beyond recognition but sufficiently to make one rub one's eyes.  It was not only the village that had changed, the inhabitants also had undergone a degree of metamorphosis. ... But there were still shepherds who had big flocks of sheep; and the shepherds still sold the cheese, but nobody sold the wool any more; and no one spun it; and very few people wore black; and the place was full of teenagers, mostly students.

In one way, the people were "more allegro," happier.  But something real and authentic had been lost.

Eric and Wanda, no longer able to tend their vines and trees, sold their house and returned to England.

Vinyl excitement

Background music is often derided.  Especially when the music's classical.  I remember doing calculus problem sets to Beethoven and Schumann -- probably a waste of good music, and not much of a help to me in my problem solving.  But maybe, even as background, music makes small desirable changes to the brain's synapses.  Who knows?

Anyway, a few minutes ago, I was slowly grazing my way through that book on the history of Yugoslavia and Serbo-Croatian civilization that I discussed a few posts ago (I'm now 54 percent of my way through it), with KING-FM playing as "background music."  I can read for an entire evening this way, without recalling anything I heard when I finish.  But at some point I stopped reading and actually listened to KING's broadcast of a Bach harpsichord concerto.  Wow, I thought, that's so great.  Harpsichords really do rock, don't they?

And the first thing I thought of was a record from my childhood entitled Said the Piano to the Harpsichord.   It was a record I had received, when I was about 8 or 9, from the Young People's Record Club --  a sort of a Book-of-the-Month Club for kids, with 78 rpm records instead of books.  The record consisted of an argument between an overbearing piano and a much politer harpsichord about who made the better music.  They duked it out with bits of famous classical pieces that each excelled in.  The battle ended in a draw, with each admitting that music came in many varieties, and the piano and the harpsichord each excelled in creating certain kinds of effects that the other couldn't duplicate.

It was one of my favorite records from that club, for reasons that I don't really understand now.  I understand why it was a very good record for kids, but I'm not sure I'm clear now why  I was so attracted to it as a child.

In any event, I then began thinking about the Club.  I think my membership began not long after we bought a radio-phonograph console when I was about six.  We got records for years, but eventually the selections became more enjoyable for my younger brother, and then sister.  Even with all the dispassion of my senior years, however, I'm convinced that the best selections were the early ones when I was in my record-listening prime.  Those early records seemed to assume a certain maturity on the part of the child, while the later ones sounded (to me, in my insufferable later childhood) more like stuff you give your kid to keep him amused.

I confess I may be biased.

Anyway, the Club had some very memorable selections that stick in my mind.  And, just before I began writing this post, I found a website that lists many of the earlier selections.  The Club, as a monthly arrive-in-the mail club, lasted from 1946 to 1952, and those included the years when the Club appealed to me.

The first record I ever received was -- I remember it well -- Risselty Rosselty -- a collection of Appalachian folk songs.  The title song included the memorable verse:

She churned the butter in pa's old boot,
Risselty rosselty now now now;
And for a churn she used her foot,
Risselty rosselty, hey bombosity, knickety knackety 
Retrical quality, willaby wallaby now now now.

I always wondered what a "pozzled boot" was!  Years later, I saw a comment on a web page from a woman who had wondered the same thing when she listened to the same record as a child!

The website listed, apparently, only those records that were still available for sale.  Risselty Rosselty, sadly, wasn't among them.  Some that were available included Licorice Stick: The Clarinet's Story; The Little Fireman; Little Indian Drum ("Where is Red Fox, where is Red Fox?" "I am here!  I am here!"); Pussy Cat's Christmas; Frère Jacques and the Bells of Calais; Chisholm Trail; Every Day We Grow I-O; and Little Brass Band. 

Most of these, admittedly, had no relation to classical music.  Many presented different forms of American folk music.  Many presented favorite themes from our great American myths.  Some of them -- later ones, mainly -- taught kids how to survive in society, in one form or another.

But it was the earlier ones -- most of which weren't available or mentioned on the website -- that I remember and that I think represented an admirable attempt to help kids grow up educated in our nation's history and its civilization, including musical traditions.

(Unrelated to the record club, but achieving some of the same goals, were the admirable Standard School Broadcasts ("brought to you by the Standard Oil Company of California, and broadcast throughout the Eleven Western States, Alaska, and Hawaii.") Our music teachers in the upper grades played each week's broadcast to us off a tape recorder.)  

I'm sure similar attempts are made at present to civilize the little savages, and that parents of young children could tell me all about them.  But, in my world as a child, there was nothing like the excitement of having that 78 rpm record arrive each month in the mail.  And then playing it over, and over, and over.  And over.  

As my folks would tell you, if only they could be here.

A morning walk

This morning the redbirds' eggs
have hatched and already the chicks
are chirping for food.  They don't
know where it's coming from, they
just keep shouting, "More! More!"
As to anything else, they haven't
had a single thought.  Their eyes
haven't yet opened, they know nothing
about the sky that's waiting.  Or
the thousands, the millions of trees.
They don't even know they have wings.

And just like that, like a simple
neighborhood event, a miracle is
taking place.
--Mary Oliver

By 7:30 this morning, I was out walking, walking while my house cleaner does whatever she does, but restricted by me today to two hours in which to do it.  No place for me to eat, no place to sit down, while she did it  -- so I walked.

After a bit, I found myself walking down "Frat Row" adjoining the campus.  No Greeks, no geeks, today; few walkers other than me.  Little traffic.  Campus is shut down.

The sky was blue.  After several cloudy days, the sun was out.  It was an orangish sun, low in the sky, casting bluish shadows of trees and houses.  Flowers are everywhere now in Seattle, blooming in the crisp morning air, in defiance of the Pandemic.  The trees along Frat Row are horse chestnuts, late bloomers among trees, and they were just budding into small leaves.

Squirrels scurried away in panic as I approached.  Rabbits dashed about on unknown errands.  Birds darted from tree to tree, pouncing upon unknown targets they spotted hiding in the lawns.

This is the way the world seemed, I thought, in simpler times.  This stretch of North Seattle spread out before me like a rural village described in an eighteenth century vicar's diary.  Quiet, shaped by humanity, but shaped  by humans who possessed a love of nature.  I felt peaceful, relaxed, unworried by viruses, and happy to be walking.

I recalled an interview with a mortician in yesterday's New York Times Magazine.  He claimed he is constantly reminded in his work how "very, very short" human life is, even for those of his "clients" who have lived past 100.  I thought of those who are now dying "early" from Covid-19, and were missing the beauty of this morning.  But then I remembered all those in past centuries who had died even earlier.  Their poets often died early -- Keats (25), Shelley (30) -- but they experienced much in their short lives, and had converted their experiences into lasting poetry.   And their friends and colleagues -- whether having lived lives long or short, whether famous or obscure -- had long ago passed away.   As would we.

Each day has its own beauty, and each of us enjoys it in his own way.  And whether we enjoy it for a hundred years or for only twenty years makes little difference, certainly "in the long run."  Certainly compared with the age of the Earth, of the Universe.    To have even one year as a conscious adult, rather than never to have existed, seems an incredible and unexpected gift.

I usually don't feel that way, and I probably won't in another 24 hours, but I did this morning.  I felt that way, combined with my recurring realization that what we experience every day through our senses is only our subjective interpretation of reality, a picture we construct in our minds.  A picture we impose on what -- as physics teaches us -- appear to be a vast number of probability waves.  Or, as the British biologist J. B. S. Haldane has said:

My own suspicion is that the Universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose.

Or, as Joni sang more simply, "I really don't know life at all."

I suppose Mary Oliver's poem is especially appropriate as we approach Easter.  We are all fledgling chicks with our eyes closed, begging for "More! More!"  Today's walk down Frat Row gave me an inkling that there was an unseen metaphorical sky above and a million metaphorical silent trees surrounding me -- waiting for me to open my eyes.

But only an inkling.

Cooking and the single man

Pesky life-threatening viruses are a bother for all of us.  But most of the advice you read is how to handle life in a viral world as a parent, or at least as a couple.  But what about those of us who are single, and living alone?

Rather than babbling on  about black holes in far off galaxies, let's look today at survival as a bachelor -- right here, in the real world.  On middle class Earth.  Today's lesson is cooking.

Now, in the old days, pre-virus, my meal menus were simple.  One meal was always cereal and mixed fruit.  One meal was always a peanut butter sandwich and carrot sticks.  And the third was eaten out:  alternating between a full ham and egg breakfast; or, for lunch, spaghetti and meat sauce, or fish and chips, or, rarely, a burger and fries.

Life was good.

But now there is no "eating out."  This catastrophe, hopefully temporary, requires a little more creativity.  In fact, I have had to learn to cook for myself.  I'll pass on to you what I've learned.

Substituting for the restaurant meal, one option has been a tuna sandwich.  The tuna sandwich is more difficult than than the peanut butter sandwich, which I continue to reserve for the evening meal.  You have to open a can of tuna (there's an implement in your drawer somewhere to assist you), mash the contents in a bowl, and mix in a dollop of sandwich spread (some would use mayo, but I follow the tried and true recipe handed down from my mother.) 

Many people add lettuce.  Feel free, but if the sandwich is made correctly you won't want to detract from its tuna integrity with an unneeded garnish.

So far, so good.  But man does not live by tuna alone.  On alternate days, one can also prepare an egg salad sandwich.  This entrée requires some actual cooking, i.e., heating, using one of the hitherto untouched top burners on your stove.  Take three uncooked eggs, place them in a sauce pan, add enough water to cover the eggs, cover the pan, and turn the burner up to "high."  Make sure you turn the right burner on.

You will be tempted to go in the other room and read awhile, allowing the water to heat up on its own.  This is a novice's mistake!  You must watch the water until it begins stirring the eggs about, then turn the burner down to "3," and allow the water and eggs to bubble gently for ten minutes. 

Pour out the boiling water, retaining the eggs in the pan by use of the lid.  If one egg slips out and down the garbage disposal, well, that's why you're boiling three eggs.  Fill the pan with cold water, and let the eggs chill out.  When they seem cold, even after holding them for a few seconds, you're well on your way to success.  Put two of the eggs in the fridge (or one if there was an accident) for future use, and de-shell the remaining egg.  Sometimes removing the shell is a breeze.  Sometimes it's difficult to do without also losing half the white of the egg, as well as your temper .  Be patient.  You live alone, and there's no hurry.  No one besides you is waiting for dinner.

Grab a fork and mash the egg to smithereens in a small bowl.  This is the fun part.  Then add to taste salt, pepper, and celery salt (because your Mother always did).  Add enough mayo to hold the mess together, spread on your bread, and, voila!  Egg salad sandwich. Serve with carrots or with half a sliced apple.  No, save the apple to accompany the peanut butter sandwich at dinner.

Once you've mastered these two entrées, you really don't need to know anything else, unless you just like messing around in the kitchen.

Variety?  Well, variety, I've found throughout my successful life, is an overrated quality.  But sometimes, why not?  On Wednesday, for example, I ordered a small pizza.  I had to also order a small salad, to make the minimum order purchase for delivery, but that was okay.  The pizza, which surprisingly arrived when they said it would, was reasonably warm and reasonably good.  I ate two-thirds of it, along with some of the salad.  This was WAAYY too much food, or at least  much more than I'm used to except when visiting other people.  Two of the six slices would have been perfect. 

Put the remaining pizza into the fridge, still in its pizza box.  If covered, it remains good for several days.  It can be eaten one or two slices at a time, either for a meal or for a quick snack instead of popcorn.  Some more cooking expertise is required.  Do NOT use your oven.  Put the slice(s) on a plate, insert plate in your microwave, and blast it for thirty seconds.

Not only will the pizza be good -- it will taste better, or at least seem better, and much hotter than it was when you first received it from the possibly-contagious hands of the delivery boy.  Remember how good that pizza will taste later when you're tempted to overeat when you first get it.

I mentioned popcorn, but that opens up an entire new topic.  I think we'll save that for a later essay.  So, from my house to yours,

Bon Appetit!